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Then I hear a loud and familiar voice. It’s my guy Cedric.
“Hey, Ali. We’ve been following you. Did you know you’ve been talking to yourself?”
I want to say something like,Yeah. It sure beats talking to you.But I’m in no state of mind for a clapback contest.
Cedric is walking with our friend Mateo. I won’t say that they honestly look like father and son, even though we’re all in the same grade, but they sort of do. You see, for some weird biological reason, Cedric is not only about a foot taller than the rest of us, but he actuallylooksolder. He could easily pass for seventeen. And when you’re in middle school, looking older is a gift from heaven. The fact that Cedric must weigh about 175 pounds, most of it muscle, bone, and brains—well, let’s just say, you’re always aware of Cedric when he’s in the room.
“Ali, you heard about the shooting last night over in the Stanton Houses, right?” Mateo asks as the three of us walk.
“Of course I heard.”
“Was your dad there?” Mateo asks.
“I guess so.”
“I heard they shot one of the guys in the gang,” Cedric says.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say.
Mateo jumps on my line. “Yes, you would. Your dad’s a detective.”
I don’t blow up on them, but I get really annoyed. And I don’t hold it inside.
“Listen, you guys. My dad doesn’t share police business with me. I don’t know anything about the shooting. Who it was. Who fired the gun. Nothing.”
What follows is what they call “an awkward pause.”
Damn. I probably came on a little too strong.
We walk in silence for a few minutes. Then we turn into the schoolyard. It’s right then and there that Mateo says, “Can I ask you a question without you getting mad?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. I can tell Mateo’s still a little scared I’ll blow up. Then he talks.
“Hey, man, I was just wondering… do you think your dad could have been the shooter?”
I’m with friends. I’ll say what I think, what I feel, what I hope.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” I say.
“Okay. I said that I didn’t want you to get mad. Sorry, man,” Mateo says.
“Yeah, well. That’s a fact. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Now Cedric jumps in. He sounds serious.
“I just hope the shooter wasn’t Mr. Cross,” Cedric says.
“That makes two of us,” Mateo says.
My turn. “That makes three of us.”
Then Cedric says something I’d never even thought of.
“I mean, after all, Ali, this is gang stuff. And gangs almost always retaliate.”
LISTEN. THIS ISN’Tthe first time someone’s given me a hard time for being the “detective’s son.” I’ve spent a lot of time—especially in the last few years—trying to answer annoying questions about my dad being a cop. Some people in the Southeast area of DC really hate the police. And other people, well, they think that cops walk around like superheroes, able to stop all crime and problems in the neighborhood. A lot of people think that my dad is responsible for anything the police do—good or bad.
Anyway, I always get over it. So we keep on walking, and things get back to normal for the three of us. By the time we actually get to the school we’re talking and joking and generally acting like clowns. Clowns who happen to be best friends.
